Sign of the Leopard
by Tripleguess
Summary: The moon is setting, but take heart. The sun is rising. Third story of Fever Arc.


**Sign of the Leopard**  
_by Tripleguess_

Gone, both of them. The two people who had, for a few short years, made life seem worthwhile. Losing the little one clave a great, weeping gulf within, while the strong-willed man left bittersweet memories of better times -- protection, support, and hope.

The Baron took all of that away -- seized everything she owned, stripped her of the status her husband had so freely granted, and ordered her to forget her short marriage. Clinging to her husband's last wish, she tried to search for her missing son, but the Baron blocked her every attempt, finally confining her to the heavily guarded Palace. When she learned that he was arranging a second marriage to cement his own recent coupe, she turned in desperation to the only weapon she had left: her body.

It was nothing she hadn't been through growing up, she rationalized. But after that she needed no urging to avoid thinking about her marriage, for thoughts of the good man who'd once called her _wife_ filled her with shame. She began wearing the most provocative clothing she could buy or steal, and put the gracious gowns her husband had given her into deep storage.

She never wore them again.

Her newfound licentiousness gave her power over men and, through a noxious combination of favors and threats, she soon landed a position in the Krimzon Guard. The Baron scoffed, both dubious of her ability and suspicious of her motives, but she showed a keen aptitude for the job and advanced rapidly. Her hand-to-hand and weaponry skills proved invaluable. She refused to think about where she'd learned them.

No one in the Guard was more dedicated to patrol and reconnaissance than she. She worked far into the night and past dawn, shift after shift,; always moving, always watching, always searching for a little boy with tousled hair and a shy smile on his face.

Nothing.

She swore that she wouldn't give up. But as time passed, memories infected and the scars on her conscience grew, hope withered and died. Without that hope, without purpose, she lost direction -- learning too late that it was easy to slide from acting like a whore to thinking like and then _being_ one.

She hadn't meant for that to happen, but there was no going back. Grimly, she tried to put a lid on her memories and trudged on to meet a bleak future, finding one last reason to live in the defense of her city.

_His_ city. But it hurt to remember that. Certain parts of her psyche became a mystery to her as she buried ever more of it in her subconscious, and she gradually found herself behaving in ways that defied explanation. Seduction was no longer a nauseating last resort, but a game she played as ruthlessly as any predator.

She might gone to the monks for counsel, for there were among them healers of the mind -- but the Baron had driven them from the city soon after seizing power. Disciples of higher law had been known to remove oppressors on its authority.

So she floundered on, throwing herself into the increasingly dangerous task of keeping metalheads out of her city, honoring its true ruler in the only way left to her. Vigilance and battle became welcome narcotics, crowding out past and future with a dark but all-consuming present. Each day became its own self-contained challenge; one more random amalgamation of troop deployment, combat, and training.

Until the duel.

X X X

Time and metalheads tore gaps in the Krimzon Guard ranks; the Baron's aggressive recruitment program filled them.

One of the recruits was a lanky young soldier named Torn.

She noticed him immediately while inspecting his newly formed squad, for she'd recently made Captain of the Guard; it was her job to detect potential problems before they snowballed.

The other men looked her up and down speculatively when they thought she wasn't watching; nudged their neighbors, exchanged smirks.

Torn, standing rigidly at attention, kept his eyes on her face.

Annoyed for reasons she couldn't articulate, she singled him out for a contrived dress code infraction. "Down and give me fifty, soldier."

Torn, his face swill swollen from fresh tattoos, saluted smartly. "Yes ma'am."

There was nothing but honest respect in his voice.

He was like that all the time, she learned; proper, formal, and reliable. She gave him assignments from the bottom of the list, determined to crack his respectful facade -- latrine duty, night watches, monitoring duty in Erol's laboratory with screaming subjects for company.

Torn carried out every assignment without complaint and reported back for more, always looking her steadily in the face. Irked, she began devising new ways to make his life miserable, concocting dull and dangerous missions just for him.

She wasn't there when the fight broke out, but delighted shouts from the spectators alerted her. She heard wagers being placed even as she shoved her way through the noisy circle of Guards, slapping the occasional hand aside as she went.

The two combatants scuffling in the dust broke apart as she stepped into the impromptu ring, scrambling to their feet to stand at attention. The bigger of the two she recognized as a lieutenant she'd once used to obtain a promotion and then discarded. It didn't matter now; he no longer outranked her.

The other contestant, now sporting a black eye and bloody nose, was Torn.

Surprise silenced her briefly. Until today, he'd shown little inclination to pick fights.

"Explain yourselves," she ordered, mastering herself. Off-duty brawls did not concern her so long as the participants showed up fit for duty, but it was her job as Captain to maintain order in the barracks.

Silence. Torn stole a glance at her face and then studied his boots. She looked around at the watching crowd. Some of them undoubtedly knew what had happened -- Erol, in particular, wore a knowing smirk -- but she preferred to hear the story straight from the horse's mouth.

She rounded on the crowd. "Back to work, all of you."

The circle broke up reluctantly, with many glancing backwards as she motioned both offenders to a nearby office.

"All right." She closed the door and looked from one to the other. "Tell me what happened."

Neither spoke.

Her eyes narrowed, green warning signs. "That's an order."

Torn squirmed, torn between duty and embarrassment. "He insulted a lady, ma'am."

It took her a disbelieving moment to connect Torn's statement, the Lieutenant's derisive snort, and herself.

She dismissed the Lieutenant, then turned a withering glare on poor Torn. "Private, I have no honor left to defend. Whatever Irgin said was true, and more." She paused for emphasis, crossing her arms. "So don't bother. Is that clear?"

He shook his head. "No, ma'am."

She blinked. Never before had he refused an order.

"Down and give me fifty, soldier!"

"Yes ma'am."

X X X

Despite her injunction, the new recruit continued to use his fists on anyone who spoke ill of his Captain. Sometimes he won; more often, he lost. Undeterred, he met each fresh insult with the same determined response. Even those who'd pounded him in previous fights began to watch what they said around Torn, for even when he lost, he left his mark.

Except Irgin. The lieutenant kept talking as though Torn didn't exist, telling all he knew and more until the day Torn challenged him to a duel.

And as she watched the two men face off once again, this time fingering sidearms -- Irgin swaggering, Torn silent -- she realized that some hidden part of her still cared, for she didn't want to see the young soldier die.

For the first time in years, she allowed honest regret to linger instead of burying it with denial. That thin ray of truth took root and strengthened, setting off a quiet domino effect whose consequences stretched far into the future.

She hesitated as this new line of thought whispered that maybe, just maybe, she didn't like the harsh, bitter person she'd become -- maybe, hiding in the deepest corners of her dark heart, she yearned to erase time and history to become the honorable person Torn treated her as.

It was far too late for all that -- for him as well as her. She watched with the curious clarity of despair, waiting for the walking dead to die.

But it was Irgin who fell with his weapon half-drawn, sprawled in the dust with a look of shock on his face. Sidearms were weapons of last resort among the KG, and rarely had she seen them used with such lethal speed and accuracy.

Torn holstered his sidearm, bowed low in her direction, and walked off the sparring grounds unscathed.

He received no further latrine duty.

X X X

Through hard work, consistency and diligence, the young recruit advanced steadily until he was working directly under her. To her surprise, she found herself enjoying his company. Beneath his reserved exterior was a quick intelligence, dry wit, and dedication to Haven's safety that rivaled her own. Her barriers began to soften.

His disappearance was a painful shock. Worse yet, she didn't have to wonder why. Rumors had been circulating about his growing discontent with the Baron's brutal policies. If Torn wasn't already dead, he was wishing he were.

One more loss to thank her father for.

Once again, Torn surprised her. A note appeared on her desk one day, slipped between supply requisition forms by anonymous fingers.

_Krew's Bar,_ the cramped handwriting read. That was all.

So it was that she found herself in a filthy, bustling waterfront establishment whose smoke-obscured corners held worse things than metalheads. Torn was nowhere in sight, but the tow-haired barmaid gave her a keen glance and vanished. Within minutes she heard a familiar voice at her shoulder.

"We can talk over there."

He drew her into a dark side room, lit a single candle, sat down... and asked for her help. Help against the metalheads, help against the dictatorship; help in defending and restoring the city.

She looked at the ex-KG across the candle, her face emotionless, and agreed to slip him information from the Guard and even the Palace.

She entertained no illusions. She had no hopes for the empty wasteland that was her life -- but inside what was left of her heart, a faint hope for Haven's survival began to flicker.

It wasn't long after that that Torn sent a strange youth to her aid. Short and wiry, few of words, the boy left her feeling as though she'd heard an echo of something once achingly familiar. But that was impossible. He was both too young and too old. Even so, seeing him with his green-haired friend was enough to send her into a coldly possessive rage -- an animal reaction all too natural by now. It was not until later -- much later -- that she realized exactly who she'd been competing for.

Again, realization dawned too late, and she was forced to watch as the youth was consigned to the wastelands that had swallowed his father. Her only hope lay in the beacon.

There was no time to tell the youth that his friend had been injured in the Palace collapse, or who the beacon belonged to. Only a curt admonition to stay alive.

It was a bittersweet day when she met him again only to learn that his father was dead. But despite the pain, she was at peace, for she'd finally fulfilled her husband's last wish. The chaste kiss she brushed against the youth's cheek was worlds away from the seductive walk that'd once made him flinch.

_Well done, son._

After that, the Ottsel declared, _nothing_ would ever surprise him again.

He was wrong.

-The End

Disclaimer: This story not created, acknowledged or endorsed by Naughty Dog. Jak II/III/X and all relevant characters and trademarks belong solely to Naughty Dog. **Sign of the Leopard** is fan domain and may be freely recopied and archived.


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